The Screenshot Problem (see Slide 9 — I’m sorry in advance)
Content roadmap for authentic audience engagement without compromising brand identity
Monetisation framework inc. brand partnership opportunities
My quote for full social media management, which I have ALREADY discounted at family rates and which you will still think is outrageous, but I promise you it’s competitive
Please read to the end. Please don’t ring Mummy.
P x
Barnaby opened the PDF.
Slide 1 was a title page. It readBLEX: CAPITALISING ON ORGANIC VIRALITY — A Strategic Social Media Frameworkin a font that Peregrine had clearly chosen to look professional but that Barnaby associated primarily with energy drink advertisements. There was a logo in the corner. Peregrine had designed himself a logo.
Slide 2 was data. Graphs with coloured bars and upward-trending lines, annotated with terms Barnaby recognised from Perry’s dinner-table monologues:engagement rate,impression velocity,share-to-view ratio— and one he did not:parasocial conversion funnel.
He swiped to Slide 9. Perry’s apologetic preface had been warranted.
The slide was titledThe Screenshot Problemand featured a grid of twelve images, all of them of the same photograph. It had been taken outside Best Kebab, presumably by one of the kids on bikes, and it showed Barnaby mid-bite with his jaw stretched wide around the doner, garlic sauce on his chin, his eyes closed in what could charitably be described as concentration and uncharitably as ecstasy. The original was bad. What the internet had done with it was worse.
In the first edit, someone had replaced the kebab with a baguette the length of a cricket bat. In the second, a cactus. The third featured an entire watermelon. They escalated from there. By the eighth image Barnaby had stopped looking at the specific objects being inserted and started looking at the engagement metrics beneath each one, which were, he had to admit, extraordinary. The twelfth and final edit featured no object at all, just the original photograph with the kebab digitally removed, Barnaby’s mouth gaping wide at nothing, captioned“I’VE SEEN YOU GET YOUR MOUTH AROUND BIGGER”in block capitals. It had forty-seven thousand retweets.
He scrolled to the final slide. Peregrine’s quote for full social media management, involving content strategy, posting schedule, brand partnership facilitation, and what Perry described as “reputation-adjacent crisis preparedness”. It was printed in a tasteful serif at the centre of the page. The number had a pound sign in front of it. It had commas. Beneath it, in smaller type:Monthly retainer. Family rate (30% discount). Payment terms net 30. Invoice via Xero.
His brother was invoicing him. Through an accounting platform.
Barnaby locked his mobile. He walked into Meridian’s stable, wrapped both arms around the horse’s neck, and pressed his face into the warm, dusty hollow beneath his mane.
Meridian stood very still. He was not, historically, a horse who tolerated affection; he had once bitten a groom who tried to kiss his nose, but he permitted this. He stood with his head low and his ears forward while Barnaby made a sound into his neck that was not a scream, because Fitznorman-Bicesters did not scream, but which occupied a similar frequency and served an identical emotional function.
After a moment, Meridian turned his head and lipped at Barnaby’s jacket pocket, where the Polo mints lived.
Barnaby pulled back. His eyes were damp. His jaw ached from clenching. He fed the horse a mint, and Meridian ate it with the smug satisfaction of an animal who had just got exactly what he wanted.
? ? ?
Hecame down for dinner at seven. His mother was already seated, in a navy cashmere sweater that she wore on evenings when it was family-only. His father was pouring wine with a careful, two-handed grip. A text from Perry had arrived twenty minutes ago:staying at Ollie’s. don’t wait up. love you all even barnaby x
Barnaby sat down. He unfolded his napkin and placed it across his lap. Mrs Farrow had done chicken, roasted with tarragon and served with new potatoes and a green salad. Barnaby picked up his knife and fork and began to cut the breast.
